Feel the Fear
by moonlighten
Summary: October, 2008 to April, 2009: Canada finds it difficult to concentrate during a G-20 summit, but luckily France is on hand to offer advice. (Prussia/Canada; background Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 32 of the Feel the Fear series.


To break up the re-posting of historical fics for a bit, a Prussia/Canada fic from later in the FtF series...

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>14th November, 2008; Washington, D.C., USA**

-  
>Canada had always thought that Germany ran a tight ship, but there was always room for improvement; a few simple measures that could be implemented to minimise distractions and ensure that everyone could work to the best of their abilities.<p>

Firstly, there should be a strictly enforced dress code. A mere expectation of business wear clearly didn't go far enough if certain participants were going to roll up their sleeves, or loosen their ties and undo the top few buttons of their shirt to reveal the hollow of their throat.

Secondly, a pen should no longer be provided if the same participants couldn't be trusted not to hold it in their mouth when they paused in their writing, and then briefly curl their tongue around the end when they removed it again, or lick their lips as though trying to wipe away the faint taste of plastic afterwards.

Thirdly, and most importantly, if certain people were going to reappear without warning at a G-20 summit after over sixteen years of absence from meetings, they should never, under any circumstances, be seated opposite Canada.

Unfortunately, none of these rules were in place, so Canada could only clench his hands into fists against his thighs, tightening them until the ragged ends of his nails bit painfully into his palms, and try to focus on the presentation again.

It was a losing battle from the start, however. The graph displayed on the screen set up at the far end of the room didn't look anything like the one on the page Canada's handout was open at, and he couldn't seem to find the correct one no matter how many times he rifled through the booklet. Occasionally, recognisable words like 'economy' or 'deficit' would bubble to the surface of Germany's speech, but otherwise it sounded like nothing more than a monotonous drone. As a consequence, his gaze slid unbidden towards the other side of the table again, and he had to hurriedly amend his set of rules.

Participants should also remain seated in a sensible position at all times. They certainly shouldn't be allowed to prop their feet up on the conference table, tip their chair back, and then stretch their arms up above their heads so that their improperly fastened shirts came untucked from their pants and rode up, revealing a thin strip of skin only slightly darker than the fabric itself, which was just begging to be –

"Would you care to join me for lunch?"

France's question startled Canada, and he only just managed to swallow down his yelp of surprise. He swivelled around to face the other nation, and asked, "W– What?" when his tongue had loosened from the roof of his mouth sufficiently to enable him to speak. "When?"

"Well, right now, of course." France waved his hand around airily, drawing Canada's attention to the fact that everyone else had already gotten up from their seats and started filing out of the conference room. "Perhaps you were so… deep in thought you missed Germany's announcement?"

"I suppose I was," he muttered, a wave of heat washing across his face at the sly, suggestive tone of France's voice.

Normally, he would have simply dismissed it as stemming from some private contemplation wholly unconnected to himself, but, then again, he supposed he hadn't exactly been subtle. He was just so used to being ignored in meetings that he hadn't even bothered mask where his attention had really been focused throughout this one. Forgetting he was sitting next to France, who took more notice of him than most – especially, it seemed, at the most inopportune times – had been a major misstep on his part.

He tried to duck his head to disguise his blush, but France caught hold of his chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding him still.

"You're very flushed." France's lips formed a convincing moue, but his eyes were creased at the corners, and sparkled with wry amusement. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Yeah," Canada said, gratefully grabbing on to the offered excuse. He forced a cough that sounded thoroughly unconvincing even to his own ears, and France's eyebrows twitched upwards in response. "I guess so."

"Ah, don't we all, in this economy." France sighed lustily, and then smoothed down some wayward strands of Canada's hair with his free hand. "Maybe you should take this opportunity to rest for a while, instead, and recharge your batteries for the afternoon ahead."

Canada scoured France's face for some hint that his suggestion was actually an innuendo in heavy disguise, but his expression had softened to such a degree that his concern had actually started to seem genuine. It made Canada feel more than a little guilty for his deception.

"I think I will," he said, reasoning that spending an hour or so alone in his hotel room might make it easier to concentrate on the rest of Germany's presentation, whether he managed to catch a nap or not. "Thanks, France."

France hummed softly and pressed a dry kiss to Canada's forehead before getting to his feet. He took a couple of steps towards the door, but then his back suddenly stiffened and he turned abruptly on his heel, shaking his head.

"Shame on you, for trying to fool me." He wagged a finger at Canada. "And shame on me for almost being fooled."

"I don't know what you're talk–"

"But of course you do." France covered the space between the two of them in one long stride, and then leant over the back of Canada's chair. His breath tickled the shell of Canada's ear as he whispered, "You don't really expect me to think this" – he brushed the back of his hand across the heated skin of Canada's cheek – "is due to a fever, or that sleep is what you really want, either. I'm sure there's something you'd much prefer to do. Or, rather, someone…."

Canada shook his head, and reflexively started to stand up from his chair, but France's hand settled on his shoulder, gently pushing him back down again.

"France, I –"

"You worry too much. Sometimes you just have throw caution to the wind to get what you want. Seize the day." France emphasised the words by squeezing Canada's leg, slightly higher up his thigh than was exactly comfortable. "Because you never know if it will be another sixteen years until you get such a chance again."

The tiny sliver of optimism that Canada had desperately been clinging on to which reasoned France was just teasing him groundlessly to see him blush evaporated instantly. How long had he known? Canada could only hope that France's revelation was a recent one, preferably come to him that very day, as the truth was just embarrassing.

France chuckled throatily when Canada groaned. "If he refuses you, then he's even more of an idiot than I thought. And don't you worry; I am the soul of discretion." He mimed turning a key at the corner of his mouth. "I shall not breathe a word of this to anybody."

He stepped away from Canada with a hearty, "_Bon courage_!" and then paused in the doorway as he left the conference room to wink at him lasciviously. Canada could only manage a weak smile in reply, which made France roll his eyes and prompted a second: "Seize the day, _mon fils_!" as he disappeared from view.

_Seize the day_.

Canada supposed it was good advice if you were someone like France, who seemed to lack that part of his brain which registered embarrassment, but if you were someone like Canada, whose brain was over-developed in that regard and lingered over past humiliations long after everyone else involved had forgotten them – if they'd ever even taken note of them in the first place – then it was next to useless.

No, he thought his best course of action, given that he didn't actually have much of an appetite at that moment, was probably to take the opportunity accorded by the lunch break to read through his handout instead, and familiarise himself with everything he'd missed during the morning's session. Then, hopefully, he'd be able to get something out of the afternoon, so long as he could keep his concentration a little better, too.

He grabbed his handout and the suit jacket draped on the back of his chair, and set off with the intention of going up to his room so he could read in peace and relative comfort. He got as far as the elevators at the end of the hallway outside the conference room, then turned around with the half-formed intention of heading back again when he caught sight of the man pacing up and down in front of them. He dithered for a moment – trapped between a cowardly desire to retreat to the relative safety of the conference room and the determination to press on with his original plan, regardless – before telling himself that his behaviour was ridiculous

_Almost as ridiculous as still having a crush – or whatever the hell this is – on a guy after over two hundred years because he was nice to you when you were a kid, seems to recognise you even though he apparently doesn't remember your name, and looks incredibly sexy in military uniform_, he thought, the memory making the blood rush to his face once again. _And not too shabby in a suit, either_.

His faint hopes of somehow managing to slip into an elevator unnoticed were dashed when he was greeted with a loud, "Hey, kid!" as he neared them.

Canada closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath to steel himself, wishing, for an instant, that he was actually as invisible as he usually felt. "H-Hi, Prussia," he said on the exhale. He searched his mind desperately for a follow-up, preferably something erudite or witty, but all he could think of was the completely pedestrian: "How are you?"

"Awesome, as always." Prussia grinned broadly. "No thanks to West, though. At one point, I didn't think I'd make it through that meeting alive."

"It was a little dry, I suppose." Canada noticed that Prussia was holding his own, rather dog-eared, copy of Germany's handout. He latched onto it as a, perhaps misguided, excuse to continue their conversation, which somehow seemed to be a desirable thing to do now that they'd started it. "I noticed you were taking a lot of notes, and I don't think I followed the presentation very well, so could I maybe borrow that," he said, motioning towards the booklet.

Prussia laughed and shook his head. "Sure you can, but I don't think it'll help you very much."

He opened the booklet, and held it out towards Canada. The two pages visible were almost completely obscured by an intricate stick figure battle scene, overlaid by liberal amounts of fluorescent pink highlighter blood splatter. At the forefront, stick-Prussia was stomping on the stomach of a supine stick-Austria.

"Oh," was all Canada could find to say, even though he was actually quite impressed by the level of detail in the simple drawings. Each tiny soldier had a recognisable crest on his Pickelhaube, and the disgruntled expression on stick-Austria's face was very reminiscent of the one that real-Austria often wore. "Well, thank you, anyway."

"I don't know why West insisted I had to come." Prussia frowned as he closed the handout again. "I mean, he wrote the damn presentation, he's chairing the meetings, and he's weirdly built to enjoy this sort of shit, so it's not like he needs me here, but apparently I need 'something constructive to do with my time'. Like I didn't have a tonne of awesome stuff already planned for this weekend."

Canada shifted his weight uneasily, the vehemence in Prussia's voice making him feel slightly uncomfortable. "Well, it's good to see you, anyway," he said.

And, all awkwardness aside, it really was. He looked pretty much unchanged from the last time Canada had seen him: still healthy and reassuringly solid, despite Scotland's insistence back in the nineties that he'd start fading away by the turn of the millennium.

"Of course it is," Prussia said, his grin returning.

Canada smiled back at him, but then realised with a slight lurch of his stomach that he had no idea what to say next. Prussia started bouncing on the balls of his feet after a moment's shared silence, his eyes darting back and forth as though searching for something more interesting to fix upon.

Eventually, Prussia's gaze returned to Canada again, and he said, "I'd better go and get something to eat, I guess. West'll have a fit if I'm late back for the rest of the meeting." Then he reached out to ruffle Canada's hair as he had on the few occasions they'd met when Canada was younger.

Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have compensated for their current difference in height, and caught the arm of Canada's glasses, instead. Canada made a grab for them as they started to slide off his nose, and their hands grazed against each other momentarily, sending prickly spikes of heat radiating out from their point of contact down the length of Canada's arm.

Prussia let out a startled-sounding bark of laughter as he pulled away from Canada. "You've grown again," he said, his tone almost accusatory. "Well, I suppose I'll see you around, kid."

"Yeah, see you," Canada said, distractedly rubbing the side of his hand as he watched Prussia walk away.

He wished he could say that it was on the tip of his tongue to call out after Prussia and ask if he wanted company for lunch, but in reality, he'd returned to his room, tried to concentrate for long enough to read his handout, given up, and then jerked himself off to a rather unsatisfying climax before the thought even occurred to him.

So much for seizing the day.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>31st March, 2009; London, England**

-  
>Judging by his faintly puzzled expression and the way his gaze skipped from Canada's face to the suitcase by his feet and then back again, Canada suspected that his presence on England's doorstep came as something of a surprise to the other nation, despite the fact that they'd discussed the details of his visit over the phone only the week before.<p>

"You're early," England said eventually, which lent some credence to Canada's theory, as he was actually over four hours late due to an unfortunate combination of flight delays, an apparent shortage of taxis at Heathrow, and rush hour traffic.

It seemed pointless to make an issue of that fact, however, as England still picked up his suitcase, and ushered him inside, so it wasn't as if he'd be left scrabbling to find somewhere else to stay the night, whether he'd actually been expected or not.

England was already halfway down the hallway towards the kitchen before Canada had even finished taking off his coat. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked over his shoulder.

Canada wasn't particularly fond of tea and never had been, but he answered in the affirmative nevertheless. He'd long believed that England used tea as a substitute for the hug, handshake, or even, 'It's good to see you,' that most other people would bestow upon a visitor, so it had always seemed churlish to refuse the offer.

"Well, you go make yourself comfortable in the lou–" England paused, shaking his head. "In the parlour," he continued as he started walking again, "I'd just put the kettle on before you arrived, so I shouldn't be long."

The parlour of England's London house was, according to England, only for 'best' and reserved for the most important of visitors, although Canada had never quite figured out how important a visitor would have to be in order to be invited to step inside it. None of his fellow nations had had the privilege, and, as far as he knew, England's bosses had always been entertained in the living room, just like everybody else.

When he and Canada were younger, America had concocted several elaborate theories about what lay beyond that permanently closed and locked door – a storeroom for magical items of unimaginable power had been a favourite when they still both believed England's stories, and later, after America decided that England had been talking bullshit on that score, a collection of the kind of salacious books which he was convinced England must own, but were noticeably absent from his library – and trying to break into it had taken up a significant amount of their time whenever they stayed with England. When he tentatively pushed the door open, Canada was a little disappointed, therefore, to discover that it was simply another living room. He then hesitated at the room's threshold for a moment, peering in, a little reluctant to commit himself to entering, no matter what England had said.

The parlour appeared to exist in some isolated bubble of time wherein the Victorian era had never ended: the wallpaper was covered with large pink and white flowers of the sort William Morris had been fond of, and the carpet was a deep forest green, crowded with vines and leaves picked out in a lighter shade. A variety of overstuffed armchairs were dotted around the place in a seemingly haphazard fashion, competing for space with a herd of ottomans and pouffes, and each one had an intricately embroidered antimacassar draped across its back which Canada recognised as England's handiwork having received innumerable gifts decorated with the same pattern over the years, albeit with maple leaves in place of wild flowers.

There was a fire burning in the ornate cast iron fireplace which dominated the wall opposite the door, but the air was still chill, and smelt faintly musty, thick with years of dust and disuse, even though Canada knew that England doubtless kept everything spotlessly clean, no matter how infrequently he used the room.

"Sit yourself down, and let's get this door shut," England said, suddenly appearing at Canada's side and making him jump a little as he hadn't heard his approach. "You're letting out all the heat."

England encouraged him onwards by poking him in the back with the tea tray he was carrying, even as Canada reached out in a mute offer to take it off him, harrying him towards the enclave of chairs nearest the fire. Canada gingerly lowered himself onto one of the more voluminous looking ones, and despite all of its stuffing, the seat was as hard as iron. The legs trembled alarmingly as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position.

Canada half-expected England to have broken out his best china so as to be in keeping with the rest of the room, but instead he was handed his pale, milky tea in a brightly coloured mug emblazoned with the words 'World's Best Brother' in chunky red writing, which had no doubt been a passive-aggressive gag gift to England from either Scotland or Ireland. England waited until Canada had carefully placed the mug on the doily-covered occasional table beside his chair before holding out a plate of biscuits towards him.

Canada eyed the biscuits warily. They looked quite appetising – thick and golden-brown, drizzled with stripes of dark chocolate – but Canada had long-since learnt from harsh experience not to trust any appearance of edibility when it came to England's food.

"Marks & Spencer's finest," England said, waving the plate a little closer to Canada's nose as though trying to tempt him. "They're really rather good."

Canada smiled in relief and took two. "Thanks, England."

"Not a problem." England took his own mug of tea from the tray and settled himself into the chair opposite Canada's with it. "So, how have you been since I last spoke to you?"

'Well, not much has happened since then, seeing as though you only spoke to me last week,' was Canada's immediate thought, but, again, it seemed unnecessary to belabour that point as it was already obvious that England had forgotten that the entire conversation had taken place. If he brought it up, England would no doubt blame illness and the heavy workload he'd been struggling with recently for it slipping his mind, which would make Canada feel like a dick for even mentioning it. Granted, Canada had exactly the same problems and still managed to remember the phone call, but that was pretty much par for the course as far as their relationship was concerned.

"I can't complain," he said, instead. "I mean, I've been feeling slightly under the weather, but then just about everyone has, haven't they."

England smiled wryly. He looked a little feverish himself, his face waxy and flushed across the cheekbones, though that might just have been brought about by his proximity to the fire. "Well, I have certainly felt better, but I'm not ready to take to my bed yet, either." He blew across the top of his tea, and then took a sip of it before asking, "And how's your brother faring?"

The question was clearly meant to be posed in an off-hand way, as though the answer was of little consequence, but England's attempt at nonchalance was ruined by the keenness of his eyes as they fixed on Canada's.

"You know him," Canada said, looking at the painting of a rectangular cow hanging behind England's head to avoid his gaze. "He says he's fine and he never gets sick, but he must be, mustn't he? Even if it's just a little? In any case, however he's feeling, he hasn't slowed or quietened down at all."

England's only response was a toneless hum that offered nothing in the way of answers, and he dropped his eyes to his mug.

Canada nibbled on one of his biscuits in the ensuing silence, and thought about how best to phrase the question he wanted to ask. It had seemed like a simple enough thing before, but now he was actually here, with England sat right in front of him, the idea suddenly felt absurd.

If Canada asked England anything about Prussia, then England would want to know why he was interested, no matter how banal the information, and Canada had never really talked to England about his relationships, potential relationships, or anything else that could be construed as being about sex in any way, shape, or form. In fact, his mind skittered away from thinking about England and sex in the same sentence. The two words seemed to repel each other if they got too close, like the north poles of magnets.

The nearest they'd ever gotten to discussing the topic was the time that England had sat him down in the early nineteenth century and given what Canada had only realised was meant to be a 'sex talk' in retrospect. As it was, England had used such vague euphemisms and overblown metaphors that Canada had been convinced for quite some time that sex somehow involved flowery meadows and an entire bestiary of animals, and wasn't much taken with the idea at all. France had eventually corrected his assumptions several years later with a far more graphic conversation which had left Canada even more convinced that he would never have sex, although for entirely different reasons.

He got as far as saying, "England, can I ask you…" before his courage failed him.

England had always been free with advice on just about every subject other than the personal. When it came to that, he seemed completely impenetrable, his expression becoming closed, eyes remote, as though trying to distance himself from the subject entirely. '_It doesn't mean he doesn't care_,' Wales had told Canada, not long after France had given him up to England, and Canada was missing France's candidness and free affection. '_He's just not very good with that sort of thing. You know, the messy emotional stuff_.'

"Ask me…?" England said, raising his thick brows questioningly. His face was blank, but his long fingers tapped an irregular, curt tattoo against the arm of his chair, revealing a certain amount of irritation being kept carefully in check.

Canada couldn't bring himself to do it; he would have liked to have sounded out his plan to someone who actually knew Prussia a little better, but it wasn't exactly necessary for anything other than his peace of mind. "You don't usually use this room," he said, because he felt he had to say _something_. "I was just wondering: why the change?"

England's nose wrinkled, nostrils flaring, as he frowned. "Bloody Wales has taken over my living room," he said, spitting out each word with vehemence. "He's just split up with his girlfriend, so apparently that means he has to sprawl on my sofa all day, drinking my wine and listening to The Smiths on endless fucking repeat."

"I didn't realise he was seeing somebody," Canada said, though his own ignorance on the matter was hardly a surprise to him. Wales had always been more open with him than England or any of his other siblings, but open compared to the proverbial clam was still pretty tight-lipped by any other measure.

"One of his own people. Again. Because he never fucking learns." England's voice rose to almost a shout, clearly attempting to address Wales himself if he was in the room next door. "It never lasts: they either want to settle down, or get married, or start a family, or simply realise that he hasn't aged a single day in ten years and start asking questions he doesn't want to answer."

"So is that what happened this time?" Canada asked, curious despite himself. Relationships with humans weren't exactly unknown amongst the nations, but they weren't common, either, for much of the same reasons as England had just outlined.

England chuckled, though he didn't sound particularly amused. "Oh, this time he was dumped for someone else. A bloke she met at her evening class, or something. Why the hell he feels like he has to come and inflict himself on me when he has a perfectly good home of his own to mope around in nowadays? That I don't know."

'Because you're his brother,' Canada almost said, before catching himself in that, too. For a long time, he had thought that England hated his brothers – and them him – before France had explained their dynamics as he saw them, back during the First World War. '_They'd take a bullet for each other; they'd die for each other without even thinking about it, but I don't think any of them have ever had a good word to say about the others_,' he'd said. '_They love each other well enough, it's_ liking _they find difficult_.'

Before Canada had had chance to think of a reply beyond a vague commiserating noise, the door opened, disgorging Wales into the parlour from the hallway beyond.

"Did you call me?" he asked England, slurring his words slightly.

England closed his eyes briefly. "No, I didn't. Now, please go back to –"

"Hey, you didn't ask me if I wanted a cuppa." Wales pointed accusingly at England's mug. "Or any of the posh biscuits," he said, swiping one of them off the plate.

"I didn't think you'd have enough room for tea, given how much of my wine you've drunk. And those are for Canada" – England snatched the biscuit back from Wales – "not you."

Wales glanced about himself, then smiled, wide and sloppy, when he noticed Canada. "You should have let me know you'd arrived. You were so late I was starting to get worried."

He swept Canada off his chair and into a bone-crushing hug. He stank of alcohol, stale smoke, and general unwashedness, so Canada held his breath as best he could as he returned it.

He eventually loosened his grip when England said, "Put the poor lad down, for Christ's sake," but kept hold of Canada's shoulders as he stepped back.

"It's good to see you," he said, unsuccessfully trying to focus on Canada's face. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, underlined by dark arcs of bagged skin.

"You too," Canada said, turning his head to one side slightly in an attempt to avoid inhaling Wales' near-100% proof breath. "I'm sorry to hear about you and…" He trailed off, realising with a pang of guilt that he had no idea what Wales' ex-girlfriend was called.

Wales' bottom lip trembled, and his eyes welled up even further, but he still said, "Don't be. I'm better off on my own. Relationships are all shite, anyway."

"O-Okay," Canada said, awkwardly patting Wales' back in sympathy. Wales leant into the touch a little, his fingers curling tightly against the fabric of Canada's shirt.

"Believe me, you should be glad you're single, _mab_. Make the most of it."

Canada laughed shakily, and agreed that he was, despite the fact that he still hoped to rectify that very situation in the next couple of days. Providing he managed to keep his nerve and follow through with his plan, of course.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>1st April, 2009; London, England**

-  
>Canada was used to being overlooked, but being actively avoided was a relatively rare occurrence. He suspected that the latter rather than the former was the cause of the large clear space surrounding him, but took some small comfort from the fact that it was most likely due to the nation standing – well, more like <em>listing<em> – next to him.

"I don't understand what _Lloegr_'s problem is," Wales grumbled into his sixth glass of complimentary champagne. "'Get out of the house,' he says. 'Got to take your mind off it,' he tells me. So I come here with you, and I get treated like a bloody gatecrasher. I've got just as much right to be here as him, haven't I? It's my taxes paying for this room, this booze, and these little fucking nibbly bits just the same as his."

Wales drained his champagne, and then staggered off to the drinks table to snag himself some more. Canada tried to surreptitiously edge away while his back was turned, but Wales was surprisingly speedy for someone who looked like he was only remaining upright through sheer force of will, and caught up with him again before he'd managed to get more than a few feet away.

"I bet he's just pissed off because he can't pass himself off as the UK whilst I'm here," Wales continued, holding out one of the two glasses he'd picked up towards Canada.

Canada lifted his glass – still his first – towards Wales to show him it was nearly full, and Wales shrugged. "More for me, then."

"I think everyone knows that he's just representing all of you guys," Canada said, trying to sound reassuring, even though he knew it was a losing battle as Wales seemed determined to take offence towards everyone and everything today. "But you never usually come to any of our meetings or anything, so I guess they" – Canada tried to think of a less loaded word than 'forget', but it felt so appropriate that he failed miserably – "forget about you sometimes."

"Forget?" Thankfully, Wales sounded thoughtful rather than insulted. "Yeah, that's fair enough for some of them, I'll give you that, but others?" He sighed. "I mean, I thought _Ffrainc_ was a _friend_, he's been shagging my brother on and off for about seven hundred years, and I don't even merit a 'hello' from the bastard?"

He nodded towards the opposite side of the function room, where France was talking to Netherlands. They were standing so close to one another that Canada suspected there wasn't enough room for a piece of paper between their chests, and France's eyes were fixed on Netherland's lips as he trailed the tips of his fingers up and down the other nation's arm. France had barely even acknowledged anyone else's existence since he arrived – he could be remarkably single-minded once he'd set his sights on whomever he'd decided should be sharing his bed later that day – so it seemed unlikely that his ignoring Wales was a deliberate snub.

"I think he –"

"America and Australia, too, and they're _family_."

America and Australia had, in fact, both attempted to greet Wales, but he'd been so distracted by his search for more alcohol at the time that he'd simply brushed past them, mumbling under his breath the entire time. The mumbling, which continued incessantly in-between occasional bouts of lucidity, was probably playing a major role in everyone else seemingly pretending Wales didn't exist, along with the fact that he still looked and smelled as though he'd been sleeping in a dumpster behind a brewery for several days.

"At least you haven't abandoned me, too." Wales reached out, probably with the intention of clasping Canada's shoulder, but he had apparently forgotten he was holding a glass. It knocked against Canada's head and then tipped, dribbling the last sticky dregs of champagne it contained down the side of his neck. "I really appreciate that."

"No problem, Wales." Wales' eyes had started glistening in that tell-tale way which forewarned of yet another crying jag. Canada laughed nervously, and ducked out from beneath Wales' hand, thinking he should probably try and find England again. "Though, I should go –"

"Are you sure you want to sleep here the next couple of nights?" Wales asked, his voice quavering. "I'm sure England wouldn't mind if you stayed with us – with him. Your room's already set up and everything. Seems like a waste of money, paying for a room here when you've got family nearby."

Canada grimaced. "It's too late to cancel my booking now, and…" He trailed off, realising that he really didn't really have a good reason to refuse. Or, at least, not one that he wanted to share with Wales. He'd expected the question before now, but had been so relieved when England had failed to bring it up that morning that he hadn't bothered to try and think of a plausible excuse. "Sorry."

Wales opened his mouth, presumably to ask a perfectly sensible question like, 'Why the hell didn't you do it earlier, then?' or, 'Why did you book a room in the first place?', but then snapped it closed again without saying a word, and simply shook his head.

Canada scanned the function room while Wales stared down at the floor and apparently held a whispered conversation with his shoes. He spotted America first, chatting to Mexico next to the buffet table. Normally, it was pretty much guaranteed that England could be found somewhere within America's orbit at events like these – usually irate and swearing, but ostensibly incapable of moving away, nevertheless – but he was nowhere to be seen.

Neither was he with Australia, who was standing with India and China by the large glass doors which led out onto the decked area outside the hotel and apparently discussing something weighty, given his uncharacteristically earnest expression.

Canada's eyes skipped past them to the next small group on their right; a group which contained Prussia, whose late arrival Canada had somehow failed to notice while he was preoccupied with Wales. It seemed he was in the midst of telling his brother and Italy something which required a great deal of extravagant hand gestures for clarification, and Italy was listening with what appeared to be rapt attention, a wide smile splitting his face. Germany, on the other hand, was staring off into the middle distance, determinedly chewing on a vol-au-vent.

Canada's hand dropped automatically to his jacket pocket, England temporarily forgotten. Although he hadn't banked on Prussia turning up – he hadn't attended a single EU meeting, according to England – he'd hoped he would, so had come prepared, nevertheless. Prepared to embark on the first part of his plan – which his brain stubbornly insisted on calling 'Operation: Seize the Day' in America's voice whenever he thought about it – which he'd been formulating since shortly after the last G-20 summit.

Two weeks after, to be precise, when France forwarded him a link to Prussia's blog with no explanation beyond, 'Thought you might find this useful'. No matter how useful France considered it to be, Canada had resisted the temptation to follow the link for several weeks afterwards, reasoning that it was pretty weird to go poking around the personal site of someone he – when it came down to it – barely even knew. His determination survived the first round of France's badgering about it, but not the second, during which France quite rightly pointed out that the blog wasn't private, and Prussia could quite easily have set it so if he wanted to limit access to it.

As it turned out, the blog was something of a disappointment, containing little more than various slightly out of focus photographs – mainly of Prussia himself, his brother, Austria and Hungary – and copious amounts of bitching about Prussia's favourite football team, BFC Preussen, who were apparently performing quite badly that season. In order to feel a little less like a creepy stalker, Canada had commented on a couple of entries, and was pleasantly surprised when Prussia replied, albeit only with bizarre emoticons that Canada couldn't quite figure out the meaning of.

He'd come away from the experience knowing little more about Prussia than he had going in, save for the fact that he seemed to buy anything and everything that caught his eye – whether he needed it or not – especially if it made spurious claims that it would make the potential owner happier upon purchasing it. That knowledge, however, had resulted in the genesis of 'Operation: Seize the Day', which was the rationale behind the small bottle currently nestled in his pocket.

As Canada was considering how best to broach the subject of said bottle with Prussia, he was suddenly assailed by Wales, who flung both of his arms around him and buried his face in the crook of Canada's neck.

"Why did she have to leave me," Wales said tremulously. "What's fucking _Rhys_ got that I haven't, eh?"

Canada cursed himself for getting distracted, and redoubled his efforts at trying to find England over the top of Wales' bowed head. In the meantime, until reinforcements arrived, he tentatively rested a hand against Wales' back, then, when the contact wasn't rebuffed, started to rub clumsy circles between his shoulder blades. "I don't –"

"I'm so fucking lonely, _mab_." Wales' sobs intensified, soaking the parts of Canada's collar which weren't already tacky from spilt champagne with what he hoped was only tears.

Several heads had turned their way, expressions curious, but Canada ignored them, focusing instead on England, who had just appeared at the back of the room with a member of the hotel's staff. Canada managed to wrestle one arm free from Wales' tight embrace, and then waved at England, who, although he appeared to looking straight at them, did not react to the gesture at all.

Wales' mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, 'The things she could do with her tongue,' which horrified Canada into reflexively calling out England's name, although he did manage to retain enough presence of mind to use the human one, despite the circumstances. England's shoulders visibly tensed, and he took his leave of the man beside him with a swift handshake, before stalking towards Canada and Wales, his face flushed a deep red which bespoke either extreme anger or embarrassment.

Canada suspected it was actually a mixture of both, because although he said, "Christ Almighty, Wales, look at the fucking state of you," his hands were gentle as he unwrapped Wales' arms from their tight hold around Canada's shoulders.

Wales clung on to England as soon as his grip was broken, and then he slumped his full weight against his brother.

England cupped the back of Wales' head momentarily as he struggled to hold him upright, fingers tangled in his brother's thick brown hair, before he dropped his hand as quickly as if it had been burnt. "I think you'd be best off at home, don't you?" he said gruffly. "I'll call you a taxi… No, you'd probably end up in Land's End in this state. I'll drive you myself."

Wales nodded his head against England's chest. "_Diolch_, _brawd_."

A small smile played across England's lips but disappeared before it had chance to settle, leaving his expression stony once more.

"I'll probably only be gone for half-an-hour or so," England told Canada, "in case anyone asks. Although, by the looks of it, everyone will be more than aware of where I've gone. Nosy bastards."

He nodded brusquely, before leading Wales out towards the hotel lobby, and as soon as the two of them left, the conversations that Canada hadn't even noticed had fallen silent started up again.

"What's the matter with him?" Prussia's voice, unexpected and far too close to his ear for comfort, startled Canada, and he spun around quickly, nearly colliding with the other nation.

"Watch where you're going," Prussia said, and hopped back a couple of steps, holding up his hands as if preparing to ward off a blow.

"Sorry," Canada said, the word sticking at the back of his throat a little which made it come out ragged and uneven. "You… startled me. I didn't realise you were there."

Prussia grinned broadly, clearly amused by Canada's flustered state. "I just came over to watch the show," he said. "So, are you going to tell me what the hell that was all about, or not?"

"Wales is..." Canada caught his tongue before he continued, presuming that Wales wouldn't want Prussia knowing his private business. "He's very drunk," he finished.

"Already?" Prussia snickered, shaking his head. "So he's about as good at holding his drink as old Eyebrows himself, then."

"It appears so," Canada said. It felt bizarrely like a betrayal, seeing as though Wales could in fact drink both England _and_ Scotland under the table on occasion, but Canada reasoned that Wales would readily allow him that small falsehood in the face of the alternative.

It suddenly occurred to Canada that now was probably a perfect time to implement the first part of his plan, given that Prussia was standing right beside him, and a quick glance around the room confirmed that no one else was paying him even the slightest bit of attention anymore, now that he was no longer being cried on by Wales.

He pulled the bottle partway out of his pocket, took a deep breath, and managed to say, "Prussia, I..." before his throat tightened up again.

"What have you got there?" Prussia said, inclining his head towards the bottle, which was mostly concealed by the curve of Canada's fingers. "Is it a flask? Because I'm sick of champagne, and –"

"It's for you," Canada said in a sudden rush of courage which loosened both his throat and his tongue, and he thrust the bottle into Prussia's hand.

Prussia squinted down at it, obviously puzzled. "What is this?" he asked.

"Maple syrup," Canada said, the words blurring together in his haste to spit them out before the courage slithered back to wherever it had burst free from.

The lines around Prussia's eyes deepened, and he snorted. "Nice try, kid." Prussia held the bottle out towards Canada. "But you won't fool me that easily. What is this really? Hot sauce or something."

"Fool you?" Canada asked, puzzled. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because it's April Fools' Day? Or don't you celebrate that in Canada?"

The significance of the date had, in fact, completely bypassed Canada, as he didn't usually do anything to mark the occasion save avoid America whenever possible, due to his propensity towards humiliating pranks which weren't funny to anyone apart from America.

"God, no, it's not a prank. Really, it's just maple syrup. Just a gift. For you."

"A gift?" Prussia stared down at the bottle again, his eyebrows drawing together. "Why?"

This wasn't going exactly as Canada had planned. He'd envisioned that handing over the bottle would result in a light conversation about maple syrup – in another universe, where Canada was the sort of person who could actually say such things, he would tell Prussia that it tasted best when licked off a naked body – which would segue by some mysterious means onto other matters, and would finally culminate in Canada asking Prussia out on a date that evening. He hadn't expected Prussia to be so suspicious about everything.

As it was, he simply blurted out the first thing that came to mind which wasn't, 'It was an excuse to talk to you; please just go with it'.

"You gave me a knife, years ago, so I'm just returning the favour." Even as he spoke the words, Canada realised they were precisely the last ones that should ever have been leaving his mouth, but he couldn't seem to stop them once they'd started.

Prussia ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in spikes which he then flattened down again with another pass of his hand. "A knife," he said, sounding utterly lost.

Of course Prussia had forgotten; it happened over two hundred years ago, after all. Canada remembered because that day had started his entire ridiculous, stubborn crush, but Prussia had had much more important things on his mind at the time – namely forming the Fourth Coalition against Napoleon – so it was only natural that he didn't remember giving an unimportant little knife to a kid whose name he could never recall. Even though, logically, he knew it made sense, Canada's heart still sank.

Prussia's expression suddenly cleared, however, and his smile returned, full watt. "That was at England's house, right? I can't believe you remember that, kid."

"Ha ha," said Canada, who still kept the knife carefully wrapped up, hidden at the back of his sock drawer, and made sure it remained sharp and well-polished.

"I've got a great memory, I guess."

"Well, I guess you did owe me this, then," Prussia said, slipping the bottle into his own pocket.

"You'll love it," Canada said, feeling buoyant due to a heady mixture of both relief and the shocked pleasure of discovering that Prussia hadn't forgotten him quite as thoroughly as he'd feared. "It's bound to make you feel happy, I promise you."

Prussia's smile evaporated instantly, a scowl twisting the corners of his mouth to take its place. "I'm awesomely happy already," he said.

"Of course you are," Canada stammered, mentally rebuking himself for obviously overstepping some invisible mark, and possibly also outing himself as the kind of person who paid far too much attention to other people's blog posts which they probably weren't entirely comfortable with him reading in the first place, whatever France said.

Prussia nodded, rocking his weight back onto his heels, and then forward to rest on the flats of his feet again. "Well, now that all the excitement's over, I suppose I should get back to West before he starts to think I've made a run for it," he said, his scowl slowly fading as he spoke. "Thanks for the maple syrup, kid."

Canada waved a hand half-heartedly as Prussia walked back to join his brother. All in all, he thought phase one could have gone better, but at least he'd managed to hold his nerve and carry it through. He could only hope that the same would be true when it came to the plan's next phase.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>2nd April, 2009; London, England**

-  
>Canada's day hadn't gotten off to the best of starts.<p>

He had managed to sleep through his alarm, the back-up alarm he'd set on his cell phone, and the wake-up call he'd arranged with the hotel's reception, and only woken up when someone – most likely America – hammered a loud, obnoxious rhythm on his room door which had made it jump and shudder in its frame.

It had taken him quite some time afterwards to dredge up the energy required to extricate an hand from the drowsy warmth of the duvet cocoon he'd managed to wrap himself up in during the night and reach for his glasses, and then almost as long again to navigate the unusually complicated process of putting them on without poking himself in the eye with one of the arms. From that point, checking the time, realising that that day's meeting was due to start in ten minutes, and leaping out of bed and making a dash for the shower, happened almost instantaneously in comparison.

There then followed the usual hotel shower dance, hopping in and out of the spray as he tried to find the delicate balance point between scalding hot and freezing cold, where the difference between the two seemed separated by a fraction of a millimetre, which although eventually effective wasn't exactly efficient. To save time afterwards, he forwent shaving and brushed his teeth while getting dressed, soon discovering that he'd accidentally left all of his spare ties save one at England's house the day before. He didn't even remember packing the remaining tie, which had been a Christmas present from Australia and was covered with amorous cartoon frogs.

As his only alternative was the previous day's tie, which had been liberally soaked with Wales' champagne, he had to go with the frogs and simply buttoned up his jacket in an attempt to censor the more hair-raising of their activities.

He checked his watch as he rushed out of the door: two minutes to go. As long as he didn't get trapped in the elevator – which, sadly, was always a possibility – or side-tracked in any other way, he should just about manage to get to his seat in time.

The sight of Prussia standing just outside his room, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, caused a moment of cognitive dissonance as it seemed to be an unexpectedly fortunate surprise on the one hand while simultaneously being indicative of the very worst timing on the other.

"Prussia," he said, smiling because of the first point and trying to think of a polite way of saying 'I really don't have time for this,' because of the second. "I –"

The way Prussia grinned back at him, and pushed away from the wall and right up into Canada's personal space, ruined his attempt, however, making his tongue trip over his words and sending them stumbling into silence.

"This," Prussia said, with some intensity, his eyes locked on Canada's, "is awesome."

Canada nodded vaguely, barely able to believe his luck, and was about to agree that yes, standing close was indeed awesome, but standing even closer would be more awesome still, when he noticed the very familiar bottle Prussia was clutching. Confidence thus pricked, he deflated, shoulders slumping as he took a small step back from the other nation.

"You enjoyed it, then?" he asked, with less enthusiasm than he had expected he would feel upon completion of this part of the plan when he was devising it.

"It was delicious." Prussia's eyes shone. "So delicious that I think you deserve an award for it or something."

"Oh." Canada didn't have the heart to explain that he hadn't actually made it himself or anything, just bought it from a store, so if there were any awards on offer they probably deserved them much more than he did. "I'm glad you like it."

"Much better than some crappy old knife," Prussia said, thrusting the bottle into Canada's hand. It was more than half empty, and sticky with dribbles of spilt syrup.

"You don't have to give it back to me," Canada protested, but when he held it out, Prussia shook his head.

"I want to get a picture," he said, producing a camera from his jacket pocket.

And so Canada found himself cajoled into posing awkwardly with the bottle, still-damp hair dripping uncomfortably down his neck, copulating frogs on his tie, and a fake smile so wide that it made his face ache, ('You have to smile more,' Prussia had informed him after each picture he took, and Canada had found himself complying each time, even as he approached and then eventually exceeded his pain barrier.)

When he finally managed to get a shot he was satisfied with, Prussia snatched back the bottle, and said, "See you later, kid," before setting off down the corridor in the opposite direction to the meeting room.

"Aren't you going to the meeting?" Canada called out after him.

"I've got to update my blog," Prussia replied over his shoulder, not even bothering to slow down. "I doubt West'll even notice I'm not there."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Germany did notice he wasn't there, glaring at his brother's empty seat until Prussia stumbled into the meeting half an hour later and he could glare at him instead. Which, Canada presumed, was a much more satisfying arrangement.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Time had slowed to a crawl after lunch, and Canada had found himself looking at his watch every couple of minutes for the past hour, silently willing its hands to move faster. Even Germany seemed to be flagging, his voice growing slower and hoarser, and he eventually just sat down, declaring the floor open for free discussion.

Free discussion of course meant, as it always did, that a dozen different conversations entirely divorced from the topic at hand sprang up almost immediately, and the possibility of any further constructive decisions being made barrelled rapidly towards zero. Consequently, Canada started packing his things away, knowing that, unlike the previous day, they would be dismissed the instant it hit five o'clock.

England reached across the corner of the table and snagged Canada's sleeve as he was attempting to arrange his notes into some semblance of order. "Are you flying back today or tomorrow?" he asked.

The question was so unexpected that it took Canada a moment to think of a reply, despite its simplicity. England was seated next to America today, which usually meant he would have become embroiled in some ridiculously recursive argument from the moment Germany made his announcement, and completely oblivious to everything else.

When he finally managed to spit out 'Tomorrow,' England smiled faintly and said, "America, Australia and I are planning on meeting up with Scotland and Wales and heading to the pub once we've escaped from here. You fancy coming with?"

England's smile slipped when Canada nodded, and for a horrible moment, Canada thought that England was disappointed by his acceptance. Usually, England's invitations would be delivered second-hand via America, and Canada had always believed that was due to the fact that England would forget to issue them and had simply come to rely on America correcting his oversight at some point. The sinking feeling of disillusionment was short-lived, however, as he realised that England's gaze had shifted, and he was glowering at something over Canada's shoulder.

"The invitation doesn't include you, Frog," England snapped.

Canada swivelled in his seat to see that France had broken away from his hushed conversation with Netherlands seated beside him, his attention apparently caught momentarily by England's words.

"I never expected it would," France said, rolling his eyes. "Though I believe that if I were to, say, ask to your brother" – at this, England spluttered out some mangled curse words, and France smiled languidly – "then I would get an entirely different answer."

England crossed his arms firmly over his chest, no doubt fighting the urge to throttle France. "Well, Scotland's a stupid git, I've always known that. Besides, I wouldn't have room for you in the car, anyway."

England's Bentley was more than spacious enough to accommodate France, even considering Australia, America and Canada's long legs, but the sharp look England shot Canada suggested that his life wouldn't be worth living if he pointed out that fact.

France chuckled. "Don't worry, I have no intention of…" His voice trailed away slowly, and his expression turned speculative in a way that made Canada more than a little nervous. The feeling only intensified when their eyes met, and France very deliberately winked. "I can always make my own way there, Angleterre. In fact, I think that would be the best of all possible arrangements."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>The Scotland of Canada's boyhood memories was a giant: easily ten feet tall, with a deep, booming voice powerful enough to set windows rattling in their frames, and broad, raw-knuckled hands that were far too quick in doling out smacks to the head which left his ears ringing for what had felt like hours afterwards.

Viewed from an adult's perspective, he had shrunk considerably, but only in stature. Canada's chest still tightened with the same dread when he caught sight of Scotland, awaiting their arrival outside the pub alongside Wales, even though, logically, he knew he had absolutely nothing to fear.

When Canada was a child, Scotland had been terrifyingly swift with reprimands, both verbal and physical and regularly abandoned him to the elements or the mercies of wild animals in the name of 'toughening him up'.

Modern-day Scotland had not lain a hand on Canada for years, in anger or otherwise, and subjected him to nothing worse than sneering indifference whenever they met. Even so, that old, ingrained anxiety made Canada lift up his shoulders and stiffen his spine, in the anticipation that, if nothing else, he could approximate a posture that Scotland wouldn't find objectionable.

He had always hated slouching.

Scotland greeted America with a bear hug when he bounded towards him, and then clasped Australia's shoulders. Canada, conversely, was treated to nothing but a level glare, narrow-eyed and appraising.

He struggled to hold himself steady – Scotland has always hated fidgeting, too – bracing his feet firm at shoulder width, and placing his hands at the small of his back to disguise their trembling. It was only after he finished moving that he realised that he'd subconsciously positioned himself in an approximation of parade rest.

It was impossible to tell if Scotland appreciated the allusion at all. His face, as ever, seemed to be carved from stone: composed of nothing but harsh straight lines from the wrinkles above his lowered brow down to the bloodless cord of his thinned lips.

Eventually, he stepped closer and raised one hand. Canada flinched back instinctively, but Scotland managed to snag his shirt collar, regardless.

"What the fuck are you wearing, Matt," he said, hooking two fingers under Canada's tie, just below the knot, and pulling it out from beneath his carefully buttoned jacket with a deft flick of his wrist.

When Canada didn't answer immediately, Scotland gave the tie a quick, demonstrative tug, which forced him to bow his head along with the movement to keep from being choked by it. His gaze dropped; a grinning frog, eyes bulging in the throes of anatomically impossible ecstasy, stared back at him.

He should have bought himself a replacement yesterday as he'd planned on doing, but somehow time had just slipped away from him, regardless, as it so often did.

"It's," Canada began, but Scotland seemed to lose interest in his answer partway through that one word. He hurriedly dropped the tie in favour of slinging one arm around America's shoulders, and steering him towards the pub's door.

Canada let out a deep sigh, more relieved than disappointed, and the tension seeped out from his body along with his breath. The anticipation was always the most difficult part, and as Scotland would more than likely now proceed to ignore him for the rest of the time they spent together, it meant that the worst was over, and almost completely painlessly at that.

Nevertheless, he hung back as everyone trooped into the pub after Scotland to ensure that he had a good excuse not to take a seat anywhere near him when they found a table inside. Wales fell into step with him when he did finally make a move, leaning in so close that their shoulders brushed together almost companionably as they walked.

He looked to be in both far better health and spirits than he had on their last meeting, and thankfully smelt far less like alcohol-soaked heartbreak than he had then, too. His cheeks had regained a little of their usual ruddiness, his eyes were clear, and his mouth was curved into a small, knowing smile.

"Australia bought _Yr Alban_ that exact same tie a couple of Christmases back," he said conspiratorially, his voice pitched so low that it was barely even audible. "He's worn it to meetings with our Prime Minister a few times which pissed _Lloegr_ off no end, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Canada studied the tie thoughtfully once more, wondering why, then, Scotland had seen fit to pour scorn on it in particular ahead of all else he could have chosen. He never had any trouble finding something about Canada's person to pick fault with usually – the length of his hair was a perennial fallback, if inspiration otherwise failed – so it seemed strange that he'd draw attention to one that he apparently shared himself.

Maybe he'd perceived it as some sort of insult, if he had used it with that purpose in mind before.

Or maybe he'd simply intended to annoy England with the sight of it, instead. It wouldn't be the first time Scotland had used Canada as an intermediary in his never-ending attempts to ruffle his brother's feathers, after all.

_Or maybe_, a small, neglected part of Canada suggested, _maybe there really_ wasn't _anything else he could think to complain about_.

At some point during their lengthy celebrations at the close of the Great War – Canada has rarely been as drunk as he was then either before or since, and so the precise date and time remain clouded in mystery despite his best efforts to recall them – Wales had drawn him aside and claimed to speak for his older brother.

"_He's proud of you_," he'd said, sounding emphatic even in the face of Scotland's ongoing, _stinging_ refusal to acknowledge Canada's existence. "_He doesn't know how to tell you, but he is. I know you won't believe me, but you've always been his favourite, and he's so fucking proud he could burst_."

No matter how much he'd wished he could, Canada hadn't believed Wales then and he didn't now. Whatever Scotland's real reasons, whether they were the ridiculously sublime or sublimely ridiculous, the tie obviously had to go.

Canada tore it from his neck, crumpled it into a ball, and then shoved it deep into his jacket pocket; out of sight and, consequently, it was to be hoped, out of mind.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Given the preponderance of dour-faced old men amongst the clientele, subdued lighting, and beers with unamusing puns for names on sale, the pub had clearly been England's choice of venue, and he was predictably eager to offer to buy their first round.

The bottles he subsequently returned from the bar with were made from heavy, brown glass and he beamed at them all in anticipation as they were reluctantly passed around the table.

"Not this shit again, Wart," Scotland said as he scowled down at the snarling lion on the label on his own bottle. "You know no-one else can stand the stuff."

England's smile didn't falter but his eyes did grow decidedly flinty. "You're more than welcome to buy something else for yourself if you can't bring yourself to stomach it."

Scotland hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second before taking a long draught of the beer. He made an exaggerated noise of distaste afterwards, one that was quickly echoed by America.

As England's slowly clenching fists suggested that he was but one more gagging sound away from breaking a chair over the perpetrator's head, Canada took care to maintain a neutral expression when he took a drink himself.

It actually tasted far better than most of the 'real ales' England had subjected them to in the past: still warm and almost thick enough to be classified as food, but the sweetness of malt lingered at the front of his mouth for far longer than the dry bitter flavours from the hops did at the back.

"It's not bad, Arthur," he said, which earned him a grateful pat on the back from England before he took the place at the head of the table that he'd fought Scotland for earlier.

All grumbling aside, nobody seemed to find the beer objectionable enough that it prevented them from drinking it, and, following the moment of awkward silence that typically opened their infrequent family gatherings, they soon fell into an equally timeworn pattern.

The muffled rhythmic clink of bottle bottoms against wood was slowly but surely drowned out by the rising volume of assembled voices. Scotland, Australia and America were hardly the most restrained of talkers at the best of times, but when together, they seemed to fall into subconscious competition, gradually becoming louder and louder until even stilted conversations about the weather – like the one they eventually struck up – sound as though they're impassioned arguments about some deeply held conviction or other.

As ever, it also rendered it almost impossible for anyone else to make themselves heard; something which always irritated England – and already had, judging by the livid flush of his cheeks – but which Canada, conversely, welcomed, as his silence meant that it was even more likely that he would continue to escape Scotland's notice and thus avoid any further disapprobation he might see fit to voice otherwise.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>The second round fell to Wales, and the lager he bought served to improve everyone's mood save for England's, which was promptly soured yet further by the phone call Scotland received thereafter. Or, more precisely, the name he breathed out with obvious pleasure upon answering it.

"Francis." Scotland's eyes crinkled at their corners as he smiled. "We're at the pub." He glanced towards England – who mouthed, very distinctly, 'Don't you fucking dare' – and then added, "Are you going to join us? We're at The Hare and Hounds. It's just across from… Oh, you know it? Right, we'll see you soon, then."

"That was Francis," he announced needlessly once he disconnected the call. "He should be here in five minutes or so, and he's bringing a friend, apparently."

England proceeded to vituperatively outline exactly why Scotland had just made a dreadful decision, which would doubtless lead to their night being ruined, and somewhat pessimistically, inevitable bloodshed. Scotland cheerfully ignored England's gloomy predictions, but Canada couldn't help but think that England wasn't being quite so melodramatic as his brother clearly believed.

England's apprehensions might be centred on France, but Canada believed that his 'friend's presence would probably prove a far greater threat to life and limb, as – given the events of the last couple of days – he couldn't imagine it being anyone other than Netherlands.

Along with every other nation on Earth, it seemed, he wasn't entirely certain what the exact nature of Scotland and France's relationship was, but he'd witnessed and overheard enough in the past to know that it definitely wasn't entirely platonic.

Scotland had always struck him as being the jealous type.

England's pronouncements of doom might not be so far-fetched, after all.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>When, closer to twenty minutes later, France's companion was revealed to be Prussia instead, Canada's anxiety regarding the evening ahead only increased.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>France's arrival prompted demands that they rearrange themselves from England, who made a great deal of noise about the need for a bigger table to accommodate their expanded party, hitherto undetected cold draughts, and their insupportable proximity to the gents'.

It was abundantly clear, nevertheless, that the real problem lay in the fact that there was only a single free chair at their current location – one which would thus have a fifty-fifty chance of being claimed by France – and it was situated next to England.

"If we all squeezed together, I'm sure we'd manage to find room for an extra chair," France said, in a low, throaty tone that somehow made the simple statement sound like an innuendo.

England certainly reacted as though it had been meant as one; his top lip lifting into its usual curl of revulsion. "_You_ can do whatever the fuck you like," he snarled. "_I'm_ moving."

Without waiting for any kind of response, he grabbed hold of his glass and jacket, and stomped off to install himself the nearest free table which, although admittedly larger, was even nearer to the men's toilets.

For a moment, no-one else seemed fully committed to either staying put or else following England's lead. Eyes darted between France and England, feet were shuffled, and Canada tipped his weight forward, muscles tensing as he prepared to shift himself on an instant's notice.

Finally, Wales groaned resignedly, and, looking faintly disappointed in his own actions, gathered his things together and stood up.

His reluctant decision served as a catalyst for everyone else to leap to their feet and head towards England, who looked very smug, evidently feeling as though he had won some sort of unspoken competition against France.

After all the jostling and jockeying position had finished, Canada found himself wedged between a mock-Tudor pillar on his left hand side, and France – who had followed his own advice and squeezed in so tightly that he and Canada might as well be sharing the same chair – on his right.

"I can always move if you'd like, _mon cher_," France said in an undertone as he nestled yet closer.

Canada almost told him yes, as things were beginning to take a turn towards the claustrophobic, but the meaningful nod France gave towards Prussia suggested that Canada's physical comfort wasn't forefront in his mind.

Canada flushed. "Thanks, but I'm okay here, Francis."

Perhaps a while later, once he'd had time to think up a suitable opener – something that was just the right mix of clever, memorable, and maybe even slightly flirtatious if he could find the nerve for it – he'd try to approach Prussia again, but until then, he'd prefer to stay where he was. In retrospect, he should probably have prepared for the eventuality that the maple syrup wouldn't have the desired effect and made a contingency plan from the start instead of putting all his eggs in one sticky basket.

"I think you should –"

France's words cut short with an abrupt jolt when Scotland reached over from the next seat along and clasped his shoulder.

He glared down at the encroaching hand as though it was some manner of disgusting, slimy creature that was in danger of leaving mucous trails all over his shirt, and then said icily, "What do you want?"

Scotland seemed impervious to the poisonous look that France then turned on his person as a whole. In fact, his fingers dug a little deeper, securing his hold. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked. "I don't suppose the wine here's up to much, but it's probably still better than whatever they've been serving you at the hotel."

"I'm quite happy to wait until the next round."

"Are you sure? Nobody seems to have made much progress with the last one; you could be waiting ages."

Scotland's gaze had clearly skipped straight over Canada's mostly empty glass when he was making that assessment, but Canada was loath to correct him. Quite apart from not caring to draw Scotland's notice unduly, now that he was dangerously close at hand once more, he didn't want to break the rhythm of the argument Scotland and France very quickly fell into. Scotland remained just as stubborn in his insistence as France did in his refusal, setting up a cycle that seemed as though it could just run in perpetuity if left free from outside interference.

Canada certainly had no intention of providing any, because while France was distracted, he could devote himself to restrategising.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>As it turned out, Canada had plenty of time to work on another plan of attack, because, through rounds three and most of four, Scotland and Wales held court with such tenacious volubility that even those of their party who might have wanted to struggled to get a word in edgewise.

They trotted out a litany of old stories that Canada had heard so many times before that he could practically recite them by heart; ones that leant quite heavily towards the most embarrassing aspects of England's life from their earliest shared childhood right on up to the present day.

England seethed, then protested, and ultimately threatened bodily harm, but even he could not disrupt the flow of his brothers' words for longer than it took for Scotland to tell him to, 'Calm down, and pull the stick out of your arse whilst you're at it'.

Watching this unusually loquacious demonstration – in his experience, Scotland especially tended to be stoic almost to the point of unresponsiveness – Canada began to think that Scotland and Wales might be lonely.

Not lacking for company, per se, as England had told him that they have plenty of human friends, but for the sort of bond that they could only forge with their own kind. That sense of overlapping, if not precisely shared, history and experience, and although Prussia was far from being a new acquaintance of theirs, he was at least a novel addition to their circle.

If they were hoping to inspire him to become a permanent one, their efforts would appear to be counterintuitive, as Prussia also hadn't been given chance to contribute anything to the conversation for well over half an hour.

On the other hand, he had laughed in all the right places (and, to be fair, all the wrong ones, too), and so hard that he'd looked in danger of choking at one point.

Canada applied himself to remembering a suitably amusing story about England that hadn't already been recounted in exhaustive and excruciating detail.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Unfortunately, he still hadn't managed to come up with one by the time round five presented him with a lucky break.

It was, apparently, France's turn to buy, and when he left for the bar, Scotland mumbled some barely intelligible explanation or other, then immediately dashed off after him.

All Canada had to do was to move into Scotland's now empty seat and he would be right next to Prussia; in prime interacting range. Prussia's head was bent over his phone, but he didn't appear particularly engrossed in the screen, just a little bored and looking for something to occupy himself with for the moment.

Canada could be that thing.

He could, if only he'd managed to come up with anything worth saying during the few hours he'd spent musing on the subject, off and on. As it stood, he didn't think he had any chance of competing with Bejewelled 2 for Prussia's attention.

At times like these, he often wondered if he'd even be in this sort of predicament if he'd stayed with France. Perhaps then, he wouldn't have to worry about doing or saying the right thing now, because he might have grown up to be the sort of person who told Prussia all about the sexual possibilities inherent to maple syrup two days ago.

But he had instead spent most of his formative years under the guardianship of three nations with the combined emotional availability of a potted plant, and so certain social situations still filled him with a paralysing sort of dull horror.

With that thought, his eyes strayed towards the bar, where Scotland and France were waiting for the rest of their order to be filled. One of Scotland's hands was splayed across the small of France's back, his head angled towards his ear as he said something that was apparently scandalous enough to make even France blush.

Despite his scorn towards anything that betrayed the faintest hint of sentimentality, Scotland was nonetheless able to make that sort of connection – indeed, Canada could not imagine him approaching such things with anything other than the blunt forthrightness he displayed everywhere else in his life – and Wales, if England was to believed, hadn't been single for more than six months together since the eighties.

With such evidence, Canada couldn't help but think that he was just making excuses for himself for considering blaming his upbringing for his reticence, and, besides, he was no closer to putting his finger on exactly what was holding him back than he had been twenty years ago.

Obviously, Prussia was much more worldly and experienced than him, but the worst reaction he could possibly have was still just turning Canada down. It would hurt, no doubt, but Canada knew from experience that that sort of pain would likely fade much more quickly than its initial acuteness suggested.

As the last couple of decades had taught him, the frustration of chances missed due to his own cowardice lasted far longer, and its ache ran far deeper.

He wasn't going to allow himself to add another few months between meetings to that tally, he was going to…

… Spend the next ten minutes in the bathroom, apparently, drying out his pants, because Scotland slammed a bottle of beer down in front of him so hard that half of its contents overflowed and ended up in Canada's lap.

He didn't consider his recent conviction any less solid for wanting to postpone it until he no longer looked as though he'd had an unfortunate toileting accident.

He was sure even France would do the same.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>As Australia had bought everyone double whiskey chasers to go along with their beers, things became slightly muddled after his round.

"Matt got the sixth one in." England counted along on his fingers. "Then Dylan got the seventh. And the eighth. We seem to have missed you out completely," he finished, glowering at Scotland.

Scotland shrugged. "Gilbert hasn't bought one, either."

England countered that, although that might be true, that didn't let Scotland off the hook and he'd have to chisel his wallet open at some point, regardless, which led Scotland to point out that the same could be said of Prussia. England's subsequent retort was unnecessarily disparaging – especially considering that he'd not taken more than a sip or two from the pint he already had, and so was not exactly in dire need of another – Scotland's answer yet more insulting, and they were soon shouting at each other so loudly that neither of them heard Prussia announce that he was going to the bar.

The beer-soaked-pants incident might have ruined Canada's previous chance of catching a moment alone with Prussia, but he wasn't going to let this one pass him by

"I'm going to go and help him carry the drinks," he said.

No-one paid him the slightest bit of attention, either.

The pub had filled up considerably over the course of the evening – the elderly regulars being supplemented by an influx of business people around six, and then a wave of students later on – and the crowd clustered around the bar was so dense that Prussia seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty making his presence known to the barman, despite all of his exaggerated attempts at catching his eye.

He spared a moment to glance towards Canada when he joined him, but nothing more than that; seemingly happy to stand together in silence whilst they waited for the incredibly tall, incredibly broad man ahead of them to move and open up an unbroken line of sight to the bar.

Canada, however, was acutely aware of both time and opportunity sliding away from him.

"Tonight's been fun, right?" he forced himself to say. "We should do it again some time."

"Yeah," Prussia said vaguely, his gaze fixed on the tall man's hands. He seemed to be trying to pay for his drink solely using spare change, and the act of counting out the coins was a long and laborious one.

Heartened by the agreement – unenthusiastic though it might have been – Canada grasped hold of his newly-discovered courage, firm in both hands, and said, "I really wanted to talk to you tonight, but I haven't had much of a chance. Maybe it would be easier if, next time, it's just the two of us."

Prussia offers him an equally offhand, "Okay," in reply.

It was precisely the answer Canada had longed for, but given in entirely the wrong way. He couldn't let himself be content with it, because it was very clear where that would doubtless lead. Prussia was distracted, likely not really hearing him even if he was listening, and so, to spare himself a future full of potential confusion and embarrassment, Canada clarified, "I'm asking you out on a date."

The effect on Prussia was instantaneous. He looked as though the internal soundtrack of his thoughts had come to a sudden, screeching halt, leaving behind nothing but a whistling void in their place. His face, save the shocked rounding of his eyes, was wiped completely blank of expression.

Eventually, he scraped together the wherewithal to wheeze out, "Seriously?"

The disbelief in his voice was so humiliatingly thick that Canada was on the verge trying to save face by telling him that: 'Actually, we do celebrate April Fool's Day in Canada, but we do it two days later. Great joke, right?', before Scotland's loud yell of horrified and wordless rage interrupted him.

Looking back towards their table, he could see Scotland leaning against the wall beside, shoulders hunched and head bowed down low. Judging by his decidedly drenched appearance, and the empty glass clutched in England's hand, England had finally been pushed to breaking point and poured the remains of his beer over the top of Scotland's head.

"That's it," England snarled. "I've had more than enough of this shit. I'm leaving."

Canada sighed, because it seemed unlikely that the poor excuse for a moment he had managed to cobble together before would keep from falling apart at the seams after that. "I guess we're probably going to end up having to go now, too."

"Sure," Prussia said. He was still staring rather dazedly at nothing in particular when Canada turned back towards him. "Sure, we can go on a date if you want, kid."

"Oh." Canada wouldn't be surprised if he looked just as stunned as Prussia. To his own ears, he certainly sounded as though he was. "Oh, that's… That's great, Gilbert. Thanks. Maybe we could meet up after the next G-8 meeting or something?"

Prussia's nod wasn't overly enthusiastic, it was small and a little unsure, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than agreement.

Canada smiled happily, regardless, because it seemed as though France had been right, after all.

Sometimes seizing the day was definitely worth it.


End file.
